Rain lessons

The rain is lonely.

It did not mean to fall.

It was the pointed antennas

of this fortress city

that pierced the dark belly

of the hurt cloud,

and the raindrops

like unready hearts,

descended trembling

with wet sleeves.

Now, so exposed

so awfully mixed up,

they shelter in puddles

and sigh under

the undignified crush

of lorries and bicycles,

and whimper

on steal beams.

The rain is lonely

and unprepared

for this catastrophe.

It seeks to accuse,

but there is no one.

Through the open window

of my room, of my heart,

the rain invites me

down into the street tonight

to witness the sobs of life

bleeding away

into the quiet nets of the sea.

 

Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014

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